


hurt so good

by MotherMaple



Series: The Lipstick Chronicles [2]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Brat Sub, Consensual Kink, Dom Betty Cooper, Established Relationship, F/M, Flashbacks, Fluff and Smut, Fluffy Ending, Kinky, Painplay, Sexual Roleplay, Smut, Sub Jughead Jones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2019-07-04 06:54:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15836061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MotherMaple/pseuds/MotherMaple
Summary: He could stop it, any time.But why would he want to?....An exploration of one way BDSM can fit into a loving marriage.





	hurt so good

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MistressOfMalplaquet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressOfMalplaquet/gifts).



> Here's another one, gang! This one's a little heavier than Molten, so heads up. The tags are pretty complete I think, but if you want to know more about the story before you dive in, head on over to my tumblr page where there's an extended author's note that breaks down some of what you're going to see. 
> 
> many thanks to @bugggghead for being my beta again, and to jandy for helping me curate the notes that go with this story.

She knows he’s watching. She always does, somehow. Of course, he’s not exactly subtle about it, but this time he’s pretending to be asleep. 

 

But she knows. 

 

She knows, because instead of wriggling awkwardly on the bed she leans over the window seat, her leg propped gracefully on the cushion, as she slides her silky stockings up her thighs. 

 

Because she arches her back when she bends over, and shakes her breasts into her bra, instead of sliding it on and adjusting herself after the fact. 

 

Because she turns her back so he can see her zip up her pencil skirt, so modest and yet so provocative. 

 

Because she blows him a teasing kiss in the mirror as she coils her hair into a deceptively prim chignon and settles her faux-geeky glasses on her nose. 

 

“Seven o’clock,” is all she says, then she winks and pockets the black lipstick he left in the middle of her vanity table after she went to bed last night.

 

“Love you, Betts,” he answers drowsily, preparing to roll over and go back to sleep.

 

She pauses in the doorway. “Not as much as you will.”

 

He grins into the pillow.

 

.

.

.

 

There’s an encrypted email on his phone when Jughead wakes up in the early afternoon, and he reads it carefully while he eats an offensively healthy breakfast-slash-lunch, loaded with all the food groups and an extra serving of protein. Whatever he has for dinner will have to be light, so he makes sure to get all the energy he’ll need now. 

 

He makes a few amendments to the document, sends it back, and makes a mental to-do list for the rest of the afternoon. The email contained a few instructions, the first of which is to stay hydrated, and the second of which is to get in a light workout later in the day, just enough to limber up.

 

It’s his weekend already, since unlike Betty he works ten-hour days, four days a week. She’s salaried, a relatively new professor in the local university’s journalism program, but most of her days fall into the standard nine-to-five.

He’s been known to sneak into her Friday morning class to watch her moulding young minds, and more than once he’s bitten back laughter in her office while she banged her head against his chest, muttering, “They’re so damn stupid, Jug. Wikipedia! In a senior paper! I can’t with these kids.”

 

She’s a natural in front of a crowd, holding her class spellbound with her in-depth analysis and quick, clear answers to their questions. No one falls asleep in her lectures, and her students’ participation is unparalleled. 

 

Today, though, she’ll be radiating a different kind of power and most of them won’t dare cross her. The attitude she’ll bring home from work takes several hours of mental gymnastics to get into, and her students will definitely feel the very subtle shift in her personality. 

 

Some of them, she’s reported in wonder, respond to it unnervingly well, giving as good as they get in class debates, and rousing themselves for the first time in weeks when she engages in sharp takedowns of their thoughts and methods.

 

He gets it. It’s intoxicating - her intelligence, her confidence, that withering glare of hers when someone crosses the line. It’s been mentioned on her Rate My Prof page - “Doctor Cooper could hit me in the face and I’d thank her.”

 

Well, why not? 

 

He does. 

 

.

.

.

 

A few hours pass while he rearranges their basement gym, folding away workout equipment and setting out everything on Betty’s list, double checking that it’s arranged the way she likes. He sends a message to his friend Joaquin, the only person who both has a key to their house and knows about the gym’s dual purpose, asking him to call the next day if he hasn’t heard back from either Jughead or Betty.

 

She’s a stickler for safety, and that’s just one of the measures she insists on when they play with the big toys.

 

Joaquin sends him a confirmation text - ‘10-4’ followed by a string of fruits and vegetables, and three obscene drops of what Jughead hopes is water. 

 

It’s probably not water. 

 

.

.

.

 

He goes for a light jog and joins a laughing group of middle-aged ladies in the park for some callisthenics, flirts harmlessly, and waves goodbye when it’s time to head home to shower and get ready. 

 

Cobb salad serves for his dinner (Betty will make it up to him tomorrow, he reminds himself, choking down the pickled beets and saving the bacon for last) and before he knows it, it’s 6 o’clock. 

 

Betty usually hits the gym on her way home, spending some time in the squared circle, and lingering in the spa-like shower room designed to draw women into a yearly membership. She never eats dinner before a scene - like him, she’ll have had a substantial lunch instead. 

 

He gets dressed, pulling on the black tactical trousers that Betty chose, and a stretchy black t-shirt that probably won’t survive the night. Combat boots, well worn with custom inserts, will support his ankles and let him stand as long as he needs to. 

 

He rolls his eyes at the last item on her list. “Don’t forget your garter.” It is  _ not _ a garter, he’s reminded her repeatedly, but he straps it on under his pants anyway. It’s a wide band of leather dotted with metal studs that press on the flesh of his thigh, hard enough that it feels like he’s poking a bruise with every flex of his leg.

 

One of these days, he’s going to attach stockings to it, just to see her facade crack.

 

A few more encrypted emails fly back and forth - last-minute amendments, questions about the role play, and a final confirmation - and then he heads downstairs.

 

.

.

.

 

There’s no clock in the basement, and even if there was he wouldn’t be able to see it. He’s blindfolded, his ankles strapped to a chair and his wrists bound to his thighs. The uneven staccato of Elizabeth’s heels pierces the air as she moves around him, but other than that there’s no sound. 

 

Sharp fingernails graze his neck, and the tickle of soft hair. She breathes against his ear, her voice low and gravelly. “You could have avoided all this, you know, if you’d just given me what I wanted.”

 

He laughs, relishing the tang of blood lingering on his lip. “Where would the fun be in that, Elizabeth?”

 

She straightens up, and a sharp crack follows a swishing sound through the air. 

 

He flinches at the sting on his bare shoulder and rolls his neck, letting the discomfort flood his system. “Is that the best you can do?”

 

It’s not - not by a long shot - and he knows it.

 

.

.

.

 

_ He knew the instant she walked through the basement door that he was in trouble. That steely glare cut right through him, almost froze him in his tracks, as he automatically rose in acknowledgement of her arrival.  _

 

_ “Who told you to get off that chair?” she demanded.  _

 

_ “Well,” he drawled, adjusting the fingerless leather gloves he wore, “I was taught to stand when a lady comes into the room.” He dragged his eyes lasciviously from her dangerously high shoes, up her long legs sheathed in sheer black stockings and that sexy skirt, over her incredible breasts under a form-fitting black turtleneck, to her lips, curled in a sneer and coated in slick, onyx-black lipstick. “And you are  _ very _ clearly a lady.” He whistled under his breath, continuing to let his gaze linger appreciatively on her curves.  _

 

_ God, she was gorgeous. _

 

_ Unsurprisingly, she didn’t soften at his chivalry, nor did she flinch at his crudeness. No matter what he did, or would do, she wouldn’t crack.  _

 

_ It should have been frustrating, going into the game knowing he was going to lose, but the power she exuded was magnetic and addictive, and oh-so-arousing. She’d torture him mercilessly and he’d lap it up, and bask in the residual pain for days afterwards. _

 

_ She walked forward until she stood mere inches from him, the top of her head level with the bridge of his nose, and slapped him hard across the face. His head snapped to the side and she wasted no time shoving him into the hard-backed chair.  _

 

_ “Why are you down here?” _

 

_ “So I can fuck you.” He turned his face away and wiped his mouth on his sleeve, a smear of blood glistening under the light. The merest flicker of concern flashed in her eyes - no one but him would have seen it - and he winked at her, licking his lips.  _

 

_ “And what makes you think I’ll let you fuck me?” she asked disinterestedly, rummaging around on a rolling cart and coming back with several pieces of thick black material. _

 

_ “Why else would you be tying me up?”  _

 

_ She rolled her eyes at that, and tied the first length of material securely around his mouth. _

 

.

.

.

 

“You wanna see the best I can do, tough guy?” she whispers, gently stroking his cheek. “Or should I give you one more chance to beg? That’s all you have to do, you know.”

 

“Dream on,” he scoffs, his heart pounding in anticipation. 

 

Brass knuckles press forcefully into his leg, just below the leather strap, sending a dull ache shooting up the inside of his thigh. He grins, wolf-like, at the feeling. His dick is already heavy from the garter and the various other blows she’s struck him with, and this newest addition makes him growl in pleasure. 

 

“Come on, baby,” he taunts her, breathless. “You’re going to have to try harder than that.”

 

She smacks his cheek - a warning more than a correction. “I’m going to have you on your knees before this is over, Mr Jones.”

 

“I’m counting on it.”

 

.

.

.

 

_ In the early days, when they’d first started experimenting, she’d been terrified of hurting him for real. Armed with an anatomy textbook, a packet of Magic Markers, and extensive advice from several friends in the community, she’d drawn all over him - marked him like a butcher’s diagram - so she’d know exactly where to hit him, with what, and how hard.  _

 

_ Now, though, she wields chains, crops, whips, restraints, and various pointed implements with a serene confidence that never fails to amp up his desire. The one time a near-accident had occurred and she had to cut him free, the sight of her calmly sauntering towards him, full-sized bolt-cutters in her gloved hands (she’d been dressed as a construction worker that night), had been so incredible that he’d gasped his safe word and fucked her into the floormats before they finished undressing.  _

 

_ She’d nearly shattered his eardrums when she came. _

 

.

.

.

 

“On your feet, Jones.” As soon as he stands, she kicks the chair away and yanks his blindfold off. 

 

He warily watches her prowl around him, the tip of her crop trailing over his bare torso as she inspects the chains that wrap around his arms and upper chest and secure him to the hooks that normally hold the heavy bags. Satisfied that his skin won’t get caught between the links, she strikes him with the crop once, twice, three times. He pants a bit, his back flexing, and she wraps her arms around him and pinches his nipples hard between her thumbs and forefingers, digging the heel of her stiletto into the back of his calf until his knee buckles. 

 

His weight tightens the chain, the heavy coils digging into his muscles. He’s biting his cheek because  _ fuck _ she’s got a good arm, but he knows he has a blissed-out grin on his face. “Just like that, baby,” he moans, goading her. 

 

That earns him a hard shot to the shoulder that he’ll definitely feel for a few days, and a sharp reminder to clam up if he wants to walk out of here unaided.

 

“One of us won’t be able to walk, but it’s not gonna be me.” He grins at her and twists his wrists around, gripping the chains in his gloved hands and pulling some of his weight up. “By the time you’re done riding me, you won’t be able to close your legs properly for a week.”

 

She almost, almost, flicks an eyebrow at that - the only microexpression he’s seen since she split his lip with her first strike - but her blase mask ultimately prevails. 

 

Both hot and impressive. 

 

“I told you before, Jones. If you want to be anywhere near me, you have to beg.”

 

“Make me beg, then.”

 

.

.

.

 

_ She didn’t acknowledge him again until she finished strapping him to the chair and climbed onto his lap, straddling him with her skirt hiked up around her hips.“So you think you’re gonna fuck me, hey pretty boy?” Her elbow rested on his shoulder and she idly stroked his hair, not deigning to make eye contact with him. “You think you deserve me?” _

 

_ The gag was still in his mouth - it tasted like mint, somehow - so he just wiggled his eyebrows expressively and rocked his hips as much as he could against her.  _

 

_ “Yeah, it’s a nice piece of equipment,” she acknowledged, pressing back briefly. “Doesn’t mean I’m gonna get it wet for you.” _

 

_ There was one last length of silk draped over her thigh and she casually picked it up, tying it around his eyes almost lazily.  _

 

_ “You don’t get to talk unless you’re begging,” she told him, producing a tiny knife from somewhere and slicing the gag from his mouth. They have a rule of three - hands, eyes, or voice have to be available to signal a halt to the game. “Got it?” _

 

_ “Yes, Ma’am.”  _

 

_ The knife made one more cut, this time to the neckline of his t-shirt, before he heard the whisper of a blade being sheathed. Then, small, warm hands grazed his neck, gripped the shirt, and tore it open. “Oh yes,” she murmured, stroking his chest. “Very nice.” _

 

_. _

_. _

_. _

 

The ache in his muscles is nothing compared to the ache in his cock. The chains, cold and unforgiving, bite into his arms; his own body weight draws down on his shoulders, the stretch evident across his chest; he’s covered in sore spots; Elizabeth is pressed against his chest, whispering filth in his ear while she undoes the zipper on his pants. 

 

Yeah, the biggest ache he’s feeling is definitely the one between his legs. 

 

She knows just how to draw it out, how to tease him and keep him hard without overstimulating him. If she really wanted to, she could get him off without touching him.

 

(That’s how she always wins, how she always gets him to beg. It’s a powerful threat.)

 

“You might as well give up, Jones,” she breathes, one hand resting on his chest and the other snaking into his pants. “Just say ‘please’, and you can have me.” She strokes him once or twice, then she eases the waistband down a few inches so his hip bones are exposed. “I wouldn’t say no to all this,” she adds, dragging a sharp fingernail down the sharper cut of his lower abs. 

 

“You’re very, very good, Elizabeth, but you’re going to have to try a little harder. Almost there, beautiful.”

 

It’s not quite cheating, but it’s a bit of a low blow.

 

Her eyes darken at the praise and there’s the faintest twitch of her lip. “Alright then,” she says, recovering easily. “If that’s what you want.” 

 

.

.

.

 

_ He didn’t know, once, that he liked pain. It was just a part of life, one he was unfortunately familiar with. It was Betty, always Betty, who taught him something new about himself.  _

 

_ It wasn’t a serious accident, just an icy patch in the driveway that sent the tires of his bike out from under him, but it was enough to bruise his ribs and chest.  _ _ The doctor ordered him to take it easy for a few weeks, which Betty took to mean that Jughead should lie back and think of England, and she should do the heavy lifting in bed.  _

 

_ England was the last thing on his mind when she sucked him to near completion and then rode him teasingly until even he was sweating, but then she accidentally leaned on his ribs.  _

 

_ He tensed and cried out, jolting up into her forcefully and she scrambled off of him, apologizing profusely and gingerly checking him for damage.  _

 

_ “Fuck, Betts, no! Do that again!” he cried, staring at her in disbelief, his heart pounding in his ears.  _

 

_ “What? No! You’re injured, I don’t want to hurt you.” _

 

_ “Betty. Press. The. Bruise.” Flabbergasted, she complied, and he moaned, hissing in pain even as his cock twitched against his stomach. “God, baby, I need you to fuck me. Please, Betts, fuck me.” _

 

_ Utterly nonplussed, she straddled his hips again, sheathing him easily, and he scrambled for her hand, placing it on his ribs.  _

 

_ “Please, baby, please,” he whispered, gripping her hips in shaking hands.  _

 

_ Tentatively, she pushed down on one of the more superficial bruises and rocked her hips.  _

 

_ “Harder.”  _

 

_ Looking thoroughly concerned, she leaned onto the bruise and he sobbed, just once, lifting her up and driving his hips up into her so hard that she cried out, too. It was over in seconds, one blinding, mind-numbing orgasm that left him a shaking, breathless mess.  _

 

_ Betty, a fan of pain herself, figured it out quickly enough, and thus began her careful journey towards Elizabeth. _

 

_. _

_. _

_. _

 

He was wary of the wheel, the first time she showed it to him all those months ago. _ “Medical play, Betts? That’s weird, even for us.” _

 

_ “Just try it.” _

 

Now it’s one of his favourites. Go figure. 

 

It doesn’t hurt that ten minutes ago, Elizabeth decided that it was too hot in the gym, and stripped down to a demi-cup bra and a pair of lacy, gartered panties. 

 

Speaking of cheating.

 

She’s loosened the chains and he’s on his knees, his arms still stretched over his head, and his pants dragged even further down so most of his cock is exposed, and the top of his ass. His shirt is long gone, torn to shreds and tossed away like so much rubbish. Gratifying as it is that Elizabeth’s not even pretending she hasn’t been checking him out, she’s driving him fucking crazy. 

 

The wheel trails over every cut of muscle on his torso, skirting the base of his erection and then sliding back up his hip bone, over and over, followed by a deadly combination of Elizabeth’s tongue and the tiny flogger that fits in the palm of her hand.

 

He’s blindfolded again, and she’s quick and quiet so he never knows where she’s going to strike him next. His whole body tingles with every light touch and stinging crack.

 

It doesn’t last long, the teasing, before a sharp thud reverberates across his shoulders, almost knocking the wind out of him. He tenses in the chains, pulling his knees off the ground as he flexes, moaning and relaxing before a different feeling smacks against his ass. 

 

“My, my, my,” she murmurs, sliding the blindfold off again. “You are a tough nut to crack.” She traces the cut on his lip, and the light bruise on his cheekbone, his head tilted back in her hands and his chin pressed against her lower stomach. “Let’s try something different.”

 

“Try whatever you want, gorgeous,” he taunts. “Either way, this is going to end with me balls deep in that pretty pussy.”

 

She doesn’t dignify that with an answer, doesn’t even look his way as she drags a chair over and parks it in front of him. “You’re very confident.”

 

“Doesn’t take a genius to see that you want me, too, baby. You crack or I crack, it’s just scorekeeping at this point. I bet you’re dripping wet and gagging for my cock.”

 

He’s not usually so crude with her, but she’d specifically requested it during their email negotiations, and he can see the telltale signs that she’s lapping it up. She’s close to caving - but then, so is he. 

 

“I never gag.”

 

.

.

.

 

_ “Strip, and don’t bother making a show of it.” She stood in front of him with her hands on her hip, revenge in her eyes. “Everything off, right fucking now.” _

 

_ It was exactly what he’d been hoping for, pushing her buttons all night, but he was still slow to comply, considering every button on his shirt as he undid it, folding his trousers neatly and placing them on a chair.  _

 

_ “Fucking hell,” she muttered impatiently, pulling a tiny knife out of a sheath strapped to her garter. “Hold still.” Slicing his undershirt and boxers off, and throwing them unceremoniously in the direction of the recycling bin, she shoved him back so he tumbled onto the sofa. “Get it hard.” _

 

_ Their Hallowe’en party was in full swing down the hall, but Jughead had goaded Betty one too many times until she finally cracked, dragging him into the library and locking the door behind them.  _

 

_ “You just couldn’t wait, could you?” she muttered, shimmying her panties off and letting them drop to the floor, the little remote-controlled vibrator secreted in them buzzing away against the carpet. “I never should have given you that thing.” _

 

_ She wasn’t wearing any lipstick at all that night - the whole evening declared neutral until one of them teased the other into retaliation.  _

 

_ Jughead definitely had the upper hand, with the remote in his pocket, but Betty honestly thought she could make him sweat it out. _

 

_ (The scandalously tiny Devil outfit she wore should have evened the playing field.) _

 

_ Then she’d almost had an orgasm while she was trying to pour a drink for Archie. _

 

_ Who didn’t get his drink.  _

 

_ And was probably still standing, bewildered, in the kitchen. _

 

_ “I’d say I’m sorry, Betts, but I’m the exact opposite of sorry,” he admitted, slowly stroking himself and watching her in amusement as she stripped the dress (if it could be called that) off and flung her bra to the floor. “Damn, babe. Eager?” _

 

_ “You’re going to pay for that little trick,” she promised, straddling him. “Open your mouth and don’t you dare kiss me back.” _

 

_ Her tongue slipped between his lips, stroking and teasing every inch of his mouth, until he was straining from the effort not to press back. “Good,” she breathed, coaxing his tongue out and sucking it between her soft lips, teasing it gently with her own.  _

 

_ “Fuck, Betty,” he gasped, dazed, when she let him go. How could something so simple turn the tables so quickly? “Let me make it up to you.” He leaned forward and nuzzled his nose into her neck. “Let me make you come.” _

 

_ “Oh, you will.” _

 

_ Her tone of voice did not inspire confidence, and he didn’t dare get his hopes up when she knelt at his side and took him in her mouth.  _

 

_ With her lips grazing his pubic bone and her heaven-sent tongue caressing him, he almost shot down her throat in record time, but she pulled back before he hit the point of no return.  _

 

_ And then she did it again.  _

 

_ And again. _

 

_ And then he begged.  _

 

_ “I thought you wanted to make me come?” she said innocently, pushing him onto his back and straddling his face. “You can do that now, and then  _ maybe _ we can discuss your … predicament.” _

 

_ Eventually, she took pity on him, swallowing his cock and his release with lady-like decorum and leaving him dishevelled and spent while she dressed herself and went back to their guests.  _

 

_ No. She never gags. _

 

_. _

_. _

_. _

 

He’s definitely going to lose tonight. He doesn’t mind so much, considering what that means, but holy shit is she bringing out the big guns. 

 

Lounging in her chair, with her legs spread and one stiletto digging into his thigh, she completely ignores him while she strokes herself, her glistening core close enough that he can smell her arousal. 

 

But not close enough that he can taste it. 

 

“I beg your pardon, Madam,” he says, studying the lacy panties she wears. “But you seem to be missing a rather important part of your undergarments.”

 

Because of course, they’re ouvert. 

 

“Naturally,” she says, her head tipped back and her eyes closed in pleasure. “If I take them off, the stockings go, too. There has to be access somewhere.”

 

Not only is she exploiting his weakness for gartered stockings, but she knows exactly what it does to him when she forces him to watch - even with an obstructed view. 

 

“Need some help, there?” he asks casually, watching her fingers disappear inside her. “Happy to volunteer.”

 

She pauses and looks at him appraisingly. “Why not?” She unhooks him from the ceiling and lets him lie on the floor. She doesn’t unchain his wrists, locking them together and planting one hand firmly on his forearm, the other hand clenched in his hair for balance as she straddles his face. “Lick.”

 

He absolutely did not think this plan through, he admits, diving in with tongue and lips. She’s tugging his hair in a way only she knows how, so every strand feels like it’s connected to his dick, which she’s thoughtfully pulled out of his trousers so she can caress it with the sharp toe of her shoe. 

 

He was right, earlier, when he predicted that she was dripping wet. She coats his lips, his chin, his tongue with her sweetness. He’s never been able to define what she tastes like, but he craves it like sugar, so he’s decided on ‘sweet’.

 

Her weight on his sore arms feels like a thousand delicious bruises, her silky stockings against his cheek and chest caress like a soft kiss. 

 

When she presses against his tongue and begins to pant his name, he’s gone. 

 

“Please, Elizabeth,” he moans between her lips, arching his hips against her teasing foot. “Please baby, I’m done. I need to fuck you. I need you.”

 

“What was that?” she asks, malicious delight glittering in her eyes when she pulls away. “What did you say?”

 

“I want you, please, baby. Let me fuck you, let me come in you, please.”

 

.

.

.

 

_ He remembers their first time like it was yesterday; prom night, two 18-year-old kids, high on freedom and spiked punch, awkwardly undressing each other in the bed of his dad’s truck parked deep in the woods. A pile of old blankets, smuggled out of the Coopers’ basement, serving as a mattress, and pure, dumb love making up for experience and skill. Whispered questions and answers, promises, giggles, gasps and pleased sighs.  _

 

_ Three tries to get the condom on, four tries to get their bodies to fit together, and about two minutes before he tipped over into ecstasy, Betty’s arms wrapped around him and her happy voice murmuring in his ear how much she loved him, how glad she was that he was her first.  _

 

_ The first of many nights spent tangled up together, learning more each time, learning what each other liked and how to provide it, learning how to share the give and take, learning that today is not the same as tomorrow, learning to talk out loud as well as to read the signs.  _

 

_ Sometimes they wanted it hard and fast, sometimes soft and slow. Sometimes they didn’t want it at all. Later, when they discovered that sex is a book with infinite pages, they learned that sometimes they felt like pushing limits, and sometimes they didn’t need to. Nothing was off the table, as long as they were in it together.  _

 

_ And it just kept getting better.  _

 

.

.

.

 

He didn’t use his safeword, so she’s technically still in charge, and he’s still technically supposed to be whatever vaguely-defined persona he’s adopted, but when she sinks down on him, all of their clothes finally off, he can barely remember his  _ own _ name, let alone who else he’s supposed to be. 

 

“Betty,” he whispers, over and over again. Elizabeth is his Mistress, trusted, lusted over, and beloved, but Betty is his everything and she’s the only one he’ll spill into.  He pulls her down so he can kiss her, gripping the back of her head and tucking his face against her neck. “God, Betty, you’re so amazing.”

 

She mewls, stroking his hair and pressing her chest against his. “Not too much?” she gasps, grinding against him as he thrusts into her. “You liked her tonight?”

 

“I always like her, baby.” His hands run down her back, stroking her hips, her thighs, everything he can reach. “You know I’d tell you if it wasn’t right.”

 

“Oh! Oh, Jug, right there,” she moans, sucking softly on his earlobe. “I know, but you know how those endorphins can trick you … oh yes. Do that again.”

 

“How - fuck - how can you, oh my God … science words? Now? You’re so fucking smart, Doc.”

 

A breathless laugh gets lost in her throat and her nails almost pierce his chest. “Oh, God,” she moans, long and low. “Oh, God, Jug.”

 

“Yes,” he gasps. “Can you come with me?”

 

“Yes, yes, yes. Oh, God. Harder, baby.”

 

He flips her over and she wraps her legs around his waist, meeting his thrusts and tangling her fingers tightly in his hair. 

 

He’s lost in her. Every bruise, every ache in his body is throbbing, and he sinks into it. That line between pleasure and pain blurs when he’s with her, and right now it’s non-existent. She’s exquisite agony, clawing at his hair, sucking a bruise onto his neck, squeezing her soft core tightly around him. 

 

“Come, Betty, please,” he begs, gritting his teeth. His body is tightening, every nerve on fire, blood rushing in his ears  - but he wants it to be as good for her as it is for him. “Come on, baby. You were so good, so fucking good for me tonight. I want to feel you come on me.”

 

Already on the edge, she stiffens and cries his name, shaking under him, her back arching and her arms flying up over her head. 

 

After that, it’s an out-of-body experience. Raw instinct takes over, primal and unstoppable. He almost forgets there’s a real woman in his arms, fucking her like she’s his wildest fantasy until his body can’t take it anymore and he lets go, following her into oblivion. 

 

Every mark she’s made on him throbs, feeding his pleasure, and every erratic pulse of blood through his veins feeds the pain. It’s a torturous cycle, drawn out and overwhelming, but always, always, Betty’s there to ground him. 

 

When he has nothing left, when his body is spent and the exhaustion of the scene and of making love to Betty is all that remains, she’s there. Over the years, she’s learned to be a perfect domme, but it’s after the games are over and the safeword is whispered, breathed into her mouth as he chases her lips, that she’s really there for him. 

 

Adrenaline is still coursing through him, and he feels like he’s flying. It’s almost indescribable, the way she makes him feel: weightless, limitless, indestructible. It’s fleeting though, and the crash can be as overwhelming as the high. 

 

She’s never let that happen. She draws out the natural rush as long as she can, bringing him down so slowly and gently that he barely notices it.

 

There are already fresh flannel sheets on the bed, warm and soft so his muscles cool down slowly. They shower together, their hands running over each other’s slippery skin, more for a tangible connection than for any sexual reason. It’s just touch, but it’s so much more. 

 

Just touch when she cleans his lip, just touch when she directs him to the chaise in the bedroom and massages soothing oils into this skin. Just touch when she skims her hands over his body, making sure that the only pain is the pain he wants. 

 

It’s a deeper touch, something that holds onto his heart and his gut, when she tucks him into her bathrobe because it’s softer and fluffier than his, and disappears for five minutes, coming back with a glass of chocolate milk and a banana and peanut butter sandwich. 

 

It's affection that feels like something physical when she curls up into his side and feeds it to him because his arms are already starting to feel like lead. 

 

When they slip under the sheets, and wriggle out of their robes like shy teenagers naked together for the first time, she giggles softly and inches closer, wrapping herself around him so her cool skin touches every part of his. It’s a different kind of high. 

 

Betty’s always an incredible cook, but she outdoes herself when she dishes up what they call the hangover breakfast. It’s the only time they relax the rule about eating in bed, snuggling naked under the covers and sharing the newspaper that he insists on having delivered. 

 

Later, when his head’s a bit clearer, they’ll talk about the night. Betty keeps a journal of all of their play, full of descriptions and debriefing notes, and they both consider it to be an invaluable tool. 

 

Saturday is lost to relaxing and recovering. If the role play is a particularly complicated one, then reconnection is the most important aspect, bringing Betty and Jughead back together. Sometimes it extends to Sunday, when it starts to get playful and teasing again, and they don’t cling to each other quite so much. 

 

By Monday, this time at least, he feels level again and it’s pink lipstick that Betty pockets on her way out the door. He’s still too sore to do anything but kiss her, but that’s a high he never gets enough of.

  
  


xxx

**Author's Note:**

> https://mothermaple.tumblr.com/post/177526366338/good-morning-and-welcome-back-to-mothers


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